


It’s all for the best

by ji_tera



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, No beta send help, Playback bday cards inspired, Ryuu ga Gotoku | Yakuza references (sorry not sorry), Sakyo’s around 20 and Azuma’s age is n-10, Slow Build, Young and rough Sakyo, Young and sad Azuma, nothing happens really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25464178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ji_tera/pseuds/ji_tera
Summary: One rainy morning Azuma picks up an unconscious guy off a sidewalk. A good for nothing yankee, really, what was he even thinking.
Relationships: Furuichi Sakyou/Yukishiro Azuma
Comments: 10
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Use Mankai Birthday Playback SR cards for visual references

The rain started as Azuma turned onto an alley slightly wider than the one he had just shimmied out of. Azuma patted himself on the back for sparing an effort to unlock the bar again to grab an umbrella when he had got out first. The grey sky hadn’t looked like a good morning greeting then. And now the rain was of that kind which makes you shiver, not so much from the icy droplets in the air, as from the gray wash it gives everything around. At least, Azuma won’t feel sorry at all sleeping through a day like this.

Twisting and bending, expanding in increments of a palm-width, back-alleys finally led him to a concrete wall. A street leading to the main avenue ran along it, the only street around here wide enough for a car to pass. Every second streetlight on it looked like it was growing out of a mound, what’s with heaping trash bags covered with green nets. 

Azuma watched his steps, mindlessly counting white lines on the asphalt – fourteen till the main avenue, and then the station entrance is right there, two buildings away, – and that was why he saw sneakers first. Battered red and white sneakers tied around two bony ankles, toes looking up at the sky.

There was a guy on the ground, his head pillowed on a trash bag, body twisted uncomfortably. Azuma could feel his brain gearing up, kicking off pleasant early morning grogginess and going into full panic mode in a span of three breaths.

“Hey, hey, are you alright?” Azuma himself was not alright. What if there was a dead person in front of him, he was going to touch a dead person, and that did not sound good, not at all.

However, the guy’s skin was warm to the touch even under a cold coat of rainwater. Reassured by the touch, Azuma pulled himself together. He juggled his umbrella and his shoulder bag till he managed to pull out a compact mirror. He pushed it close to the guy’s face, and watched the surface get foggy. All right, he was all right now. No one was dead, and everything else could be helped.

The biggest sign of awareness he managed to get from the guy was a pained grunt, when Azuma pulled him up by the lapels of his yokosuka jacket. Slotting himself under the guy’s shoulder, he propped his umbrella between their heads. It was all so uncomfortable.

Even more uncomfortable was the walk up the stairs of Hanazono shrine. Azuma himself didn’t use this shortcut much, but this time he was glad the literally-hole-in-the-wall entrance to the shrine grounds was there. He put the guy down under a canopy and cleaned the bloodied face and hands with his handkerchief, using the water from purifying basin. Azuma hoped the resident gods didn’t mind, he was pretty sure they’d seen worse.

Grime and bloodstains washed off, the guy looked like anyone who had a tenth of his body weight in beer and highballs. He still didn’t wake up enough to tell Azuma his name or address, and Azuma didn’t know if the guy’s insurance would cover an impromptu ambulance call. Or if he had any at all. Bleached hair, tobi pants and a yokosuka jacket didn’t really scream social security.

And Azuma couldn’t just leave him here under the rain, could he?

Out of the shrine, four buildings down the street and another couple hundred meters through the corridors of the subway station it was. All with extra weight of another man’s hand around his shoulders. Azuma really hoped the guy would be good enough to walk on his own by the time the train ride is over.

He wasn’t. Toes of his sneakers were getting caught between the bars of metal stairs of Azuma’s four-apartment building.

Azuma dropped the guy in the middle of the room, took off his own shoes and coat, washed his hands. Put some serum on the tips of his hair, damp and tangled from the rain, and brushed through. Up and down to the shoulder, up and down, every movement slower than before. 

Polyphonic chirping made him jump. Comforted by the mindless steps of his care routine, just for a moment Azuma had forgotten about his guest, and the unfamiliar tune unsettled him again. There was a good chance those could be the guy’s friends or family, looking for him, Azuma couldn’t leave them hanging then. He fished a flip-phone out, took a breath and put a small smile on his face, preparing to comfort the person on the other side of the line.

“Sakyo, ya lil shit, the fuck where’z ya!,” spat the phone’s little dynamic before Azuma even said hello.

At least he got to know the guy’s name.

“Hello,” he still smiled when he spoke, “I work in a bar called Earth Angel, and Sakyo-san has honored us with his patronage tonight. However, it seems he is not exactly fit to go anywhere at the moment. I’m deeply sorry.”

It didn’t feel right to tell this person that Sakyo had gotten his ass kicked.

“Hah, whadda saying, the buster couldda not hold hiz liquor and passed out at ya bar?’

“So sorry, sir.”

“Wahaha, okay, okay, imma sorry to trouble you wiz our buster, please don’t go otta ya way for him.”

“Thank you for your understanding, have a nice day, sir’

“You too, little barkeep, you too”. Before the line disconnected Azuma got another earful of shouting, “Azami! Don’t ya touch that!,” and then there was silence.

Azuma deflated. This whole morning was too much to handle after a night-shift, and the phone call had just depleted the last of his reserves. He shoved the phone away and folded himself at Sakyo’s side, put his head on the other person’s damp shoulder and fell asleep.

He woke up shaking from the cold. The sky looked the same depressing shade of gray, as it did at five in the morning. 

Azuma dragged a comforter out of its cupboard. Squinted at his companion's dirty shoes and clothes, and spent the next couple of minutes fighting with wet shoelaces and uncooperative feet. It was for his own sake, he reminded himself, there was no way he could afford an impromptu dry cleaning for his bedding set. 

Then he curled back up into the pleasant feeling of another body's heat and tiny even movements of breathing, pulled the comforter over the two of them and fell asleep again. 

He woke up for the second time from someone shaking him by his shoulder. 

'Oi! Oi, who the hell are you?' 

Azuma screwed his eyes and rubbed his face on some silky fabrik he was sleeping on. His forehead stung.

He lifted his head, sat up and opened his eyes. The guy, that Sakyo, didn’t really look any better. Half his face was swollen, and there were caked lines of blood on his temple which Azuma had missed. Slightly unfocused eyes kept trying to shift into an intimidating squint. It looked painful, really.

“I’m Azuma,” he decided to keep the introduction short, his guest didn’t look like he could stomach keigo-length sentences right now. “I’ve found you unconscious on the street. You can stay here for a bit, till you feel better.”

“So sorry,” croaked Sakyou, his own voice made him wince and close his eyes in defeat.

“Should I call an ambulance?” the words sounded utterly wrong when whispered.

“I’m fine,” the statement had a full intensity of a shout, even though Sakyo barely opened his mouth. “I said I’m fine, no medical help required. I’ll get going in a moment.”

“It’s ok, it’s ok!” In an attempt to stop his guest, Azuma pressed him back into tatami. He froze for a moment on top of the guy, thrown off kilt by the burn of straw on his fingertips. A silly thought ran through his head, “Isn’t he too skinny for a brawler? My fingerspan is enough to cover his biceps”. Azuma shoot up and hurried to confirm, “It’s ok, I got you. No doctors. Will you have some painkillers then?’

“Uh, that’d be sweet, thanks.”

“They are not strong at all, the usual drugstore stuff. Sorry I cannot offer you any better.” It took Azuma the whole of three steps to reach his kitchenette and take out his medicine tin. The proximity of the fridge reminded him of another important thing.

“Are you hungry? Would you like to eat something? I only keep some fruits at home though, but I can make a run to a combini, it’s close.”

As Sakyou latched a hand to his mouth and curled on his side, Azuma figured out that an attempt to shake his head in response was a bad idea. “No food, I get it. Here, pill. Water.’

As Azuma got his hand around Sakyo’s shoulders to support him while he drank, he noticed that the fabric of his jacket was still damp, embroidery stitches scratchy on its smooth satin. There were dark wet spots on tatami too. Like a drawing of a snowman, a bigger circle under his back, a smaller circle under his head.

“You should change,” stated Azuma, “you’ll catch a cold in these wet clothes. I’ll give you a shirt and some pants.” 

The fact that Sakyo didn’t put up any fight at all could be a testament to how bad he actually felt. In Azuma’s experience, guys like that wouldn’t take any help at all. That is to say, usually Azuma made a point to avoid “guys like that” altogether.

What was he doing?

Azuma let out a deep breath making a conscious effort to relax to let his body submerge further into bath water. He’d brought some obviously good-for-nothing guy home, left him unattended in his room and put himself into a vulnerable position. But Azuma didn’t have anything really valuable anyway, and the guy looked like he would fall if someone blew hard enough on him. However, if something happened Azuma himself wouldn’t be able to fight back at all.

Bathwater splashed around Azuma’s knees and chest, unhurried waves spread all the way to the walls of the tub, running into one, then drawing away into the opposite direction, not unlike his thoughts. Watching shadows on the ceiling, Azuma imagined his thoughts sloshing inside his head and licking the inner sides of his skull. The image was uncanny. At least, it wasn’t that anxious buzz he could physically feel under his fingertips while washing his hair.

When the water cooled down, Azuma got out and insulated his warmed up body with layers of soft fabric. His 8-tatami apartment looked undisturbed, kitchen counter bare, cosmetics lined up on his dresser, book piles towering one over another under the single window. His bag at the door, where he haphazardly dropped it. There were also a yellow sukajan, wide black pants and some socks spread out on the floor. And the most important of all, there was a sound. Barely perceptible sound of another person’s sleepy breath that had woven itself into the usual silence of the apartment. It felt warm, warmer than any bath or dumplings could have made him.

He should go out, grab some lunch from a canteen at the station, get some chores done maybe. Instead, Azuma sat down right next to the person sleeping on his floor, and mindlessly nibbled on an apple. Then he set an alarm and slid himself under futon comforter, already heated up on the inside by another’s warmth. He was the most comfortable he had been in ages.

In the afternoon his guest got more conversational. After Azuma woke up he’d made a run to the closest diner in the neighborhood, got some food for himself and asked the nice aunty there to make some plain porridge for takeout. He hurried back, got some soft snores in reply to his “I’m home,” and settled by the window to read. Four chapters in he got distracted by a raspy “Hey.”

“Hey,” he smiled in return, bookmarked the page, put his book down and made his way to the kitchenette.

“Have you seen my phone?” the fight with the comforter was intense, but considering the lack of coordination on Sakyo’s part, it looked like he wasn’t going to win it any time soon. “I have to go. Azami…”

Azuma picked up the phone he’d pushed away this morning and brought it to Sakyo along with a glass of water.

“Someone has called you in the morning, he’s also mentioned the name Azami.”

“Boss called? What did you tell him?”

“That you might be indisposed for the moment. He basically said you could take it easy for the day.”

“Did you say I got my ass kicked?”

“No, I said I work in a bar and he seemed to get the idea you had too much to drink.”

“Thank you then.” All the fight got out of Sakyo, he let the comforter fall again, pooling around his waist. He slumped his shoulders, as if Azuma’s t-shirt grew heavy on him. It was a bit surreal, to see your own clothes move when you do not. “That’s good, Azami won’t worry much. I mean, not just for lying,” it seemed when Sakyo lost that single focus which had him staggering yet, he began to come apart at the seams again. “Thank you, in large, I mean, for picking me up, and for the clothes, and for the medicine, and stuff.”

That was great to hear, but majorly uncomfortable too.

“It’s fine,” Azuma hurried to cut in before the guy’s lost his thought process completely. “It’s fine, you are welcome, no problem at all. Here, have some water. Do you think you need more painkillers?”

Sakyo shook his head, this time it didn’t seem to make him want to throw up. Azuma was all for positive dynamics. And for doing as little cleaning as possible.

“That’s good,” Azuma decided to take the initiative while Sakyo gulped down his water. “Oh, by the way, from the same phone call I know that your name is Sakyo. And I have already introduced myself, but I don’t think you’ve been in any state to remember. So, let’s try again from scratch? I’m Azuma, Yukishiro Azuma, nice to meet you.”

Sakyo took care to put the glass away properly, and then folded himself in half, his forehead touching the comforter. “This one here’s Furuichi. The name’s Sakyo. Much obliged for your kind care.”

“Fufu, who could have thought you’d be this polite,” Azuma didn’t even try to contain his mirth. One gets their entertainment wherever one can. “Get up, get up! Don’t move too much, we don’t want you to get dizzy again, do we? And don’t you think it’s too cold to maintain the facade of politesse after we’ve slept together?”

As Sakyo turned an amusing shade of purple, Azuma wrung his hands dramatically, “I should think my forehead still has the lines of your jacket zipper etched onto it.”

“What are you implying, you, dimwit, I! I! I!..,” the purple reached an alarming intensity, Azuma thought he should continue some other time, this much blood pressure cannot be good for the recovering brain.

“You make an excellent pillow, but your jacket leaves much to be desired.”

“Leave my sukajan alone, it’s a good one,” tried Sakyo, though the fight was already gone from his eyes. He looked like he could fall asleep between one breath and the next.

“Hey, hey,” Azuma scrambled up on his feet and darted to the counter. “Hold on for me. Have a bite first.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose that much, thank you.”

“But it’s for you! Some light rice porridge that’s easy on the stomach. Let’s not leave it to waste, right? Fufu, if you are too tired to hold a spoon I can feed you, just say ahhh.”

The teasing actually helped, Azuma was starting to like this guy. It looked like in his company Azuma could have his fun and have his way as a result. There was just one more urgent question.

“By the way, who is that Azami you’ve mentioned?”

“A brat,” grumbled Sakyo between one spoonful and the next, “a six year old I babysit full time. He’d get upset if he thought I was hurt. The brat’s touchy about others’ health.”

That sounded like a story with a lot of background, but, first things first, did Sakyo just say he was a nanny-delinquent? Azuma let himself laugh to Sakyo’s grouch.

“What's got you in stitches?”

“Fufufu, nothing really. Just glad it’s all good.”

“Good.”

“Are you going to sleep some more now?” Azuma asked taking away the half-empty bowl.

“If you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead, let me take the futon out for you. Never too late to do things the proper way, right?”

“Stop it.”

“Anyway, you can sleep all you want. I have a night shift at the bar though, so I will get going soon. I’d rather you don’t leave before I come back as you won’t be able to lock the door without the key. Can you do that?”

The look on Sakyo’s face as he got on a proper mattress told Azuma he wouldn’t move an inch till next Friday maybe. He looked so warm and comfortable in there, Azuma would absolutely love to join him. His tendons ached to make just a couple of steps across the room towards the bedding. Unfortunately, it was really time to get ready for work.

His next morning was as different as it could get without having to carry a knocked out person half across Tokyo. First, he felt jittery, akin to the excitement of a gamble. All through his shift he kept thinking, would Sakyo be there in the morning or wouldn’t he? The thought, that entertained him through the night, turned into an urge in the morning. He all but ran to the station, and for the first time maybe, he wished he could speed up the train.

Everything was different. There was sound. A mindless chirping of some morning radio programme turned on low. There were smells. The wave of warm air saturated with miso and heated cooking oil hit him as soon as he opened the door. There was presence. A pair of dirty sneakers at the entrance, a shift of socked feet on tatami floor, some gangly limbs rearranging themselves as a person rose up from the floor to greet Azuma:

“Welcome back.”

“I’m home.” Azuma breathed out.

“You must be tired,” Sakyo shuffled his feet, he was still wearing Azuma’s clothes. “I’ll get out of your hair and let you rest”.

“But you made breakfast,” where did he even get the ingredients? Azuma was pretty sure the only things his fridge had ever casted its light on had been either liquid, or pretty high in sugar content, “you should at least have some with me. Please, don’t go”.

“Was no sweat. I’ve overstayed my welcome already”.

“And I’m telling you it’s really fine. You went through all that trouble,” the polite exchange was going nowhere, Azuma took action. “I’ll take a quick shower! I really need one after work, you can start setting up the table,” and fled the battlefield victorious.

Washing a night’s worth of cigarette smoke and stale bar air out of his hair, Azuma wondered, which of his shampoos had Sakyo used this morning. Azuma had one specifically for bleached hair, to wash copper out of blonde, but Sakyo wouldn’t know that kind of detail, would he? Azuma should encourage him to try it out the next time maybe.

What was he even thinking. Apparently, his bathtime was rapidly turning into stupid thoughts time. There wasn’t going to be any “next”.

By the time Azuma got out of the bathroom, Sakyo had cleared out the coffee table and pushed it into the middle of the room, so they could sit across each other. The food was nice, plain, and seasoned only with the most basic flavors of soy sause, miso and cooking alcohol. It was perfect in its own way, befitting the situation and his company.

“Thank you for the food,” murmured Azuma, picking up his chopsticks. Sakyo mirrored him with an added crack of disposable chopsticks echoing his words. Ah, great, finally the stockpile of disposable utensils got to see some use, as Azuma doubted he had a second set of decent chopsticks anyway.

“I’m absolutely positive this is the best meal my plate has ever seen,” joked Azuma between the bites. “That must have been a lot of trouble to go through so early in the morning”.

Sakyo looked away, seemingly flustered, he ran his hand through his hair, all the way over his head, moving the bangs out of his eyes. However in just a moment his face got its sour look back. “I woke up at the ass crack of dawn any way. The most trouble was rearranging my world view after I’ve seen your pantry”.

“I have a pantry?”

“No shit, you don’t. How can an adult person not have a single grain of rice, not a spoonful of miso in his home?!”

“Fufu, to avoid wastefulness, since I don’t cook at all”.

“How are you alive?” sighed Sakyo.

“I can order a mean takeout. And make myself a darling of all the aunties in local diners”. Teasing this guy was the best kind of fun, and Azuma wasn’t going to limit himself, “and when I want a real treat I pick a cute stranger off the street to cook for me”.

Sakyo choked on a mouthful of rice, “Quit it”

“Fufu, works for me,” Azuma laughed freely, then shook his head. Tips of his hair, still damp after the shower, heavy and cold, brushed his chin and he shivered. “Sure, sure, I’ll stop. Let’s change the topic then. What are your plans for the day?”

This mundane question got Sakyo sighing over his rice again.

“Gonna hang around somewhere, I guess. Looks like I’m out of commission for a bit.”

“You don’t feel well?” Azuma hurriedly put his chopsticks down and leaned across the table to take a better look at his companion. Sakyo seemed fine, his speech was clear, his eyes focused, and he didn’t seem to have injuries beyond swelling and bruising, but not everything is visible to a naked eye. Azuma should have taken him to the hospital after all. “Is it your head? Do you think you’ve got a concussion? Should I make a doctor appointment for you? Oh, and you should lie down then, don’t overexert yourself!..”

“Stop it, will you?” Sakyo looked rather annoyed then in pain, “I’m fine.”

“You can’t be fine. No one can be fine after being beaten so hard, they’ve spent half a day unconscious.”

“As fine as I can be, which is good enough. It’s just the stupid bruises on my face,” Sakyo sighed, and shoveled his hair out of his face again, “eat your breakfast.” He waited till Azuma picked up his chopsticks and put a slice of omelette roll into his mouth, and then continued, “My main job is a live-in babysitter. If I show my mug black and blue as it is, the brat will get worried sick. I’ve talked to my boss, and he tells me to lay low for a couple of days, till I look all child-friendly again. And that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Fufu, that actually sounds… Wait, you said you live there as well.”

“Yeah, going to crash somewhere for a bit, nothing much. There’s more soup if you’d like some”, Sakyo stood up and picked up empty dishes.

“No, thank you. The food was delicious though,” putting his chopstick down would be the end to this breakfast and this encounter, and so Azuma stubbornly kept his spine straight and his rice bowl in hand. However, the latest adrenaline rush had drained his last resources. Was it really time to say goodbye and lock the door to the sound of rubber soles squeaking down the steps? To chase away the fizzy feeling in the bridge of his nose Azuma held onto the conversation, “Not going to take the opportunity to return home for a bit?”

“And worry my mom instead? She will fall over herself trying to make it better,” Sakyo rubbed his forehead with a practiced gesture, and hissed when his fingers went over a newly scabbed scratch. Much more cautiously he brushed out some hair which fell into his face again. “And a couple of bruises isn’t even something to fret over. Mom doesn’t need to see this any more than the brat does”

“Your mother seems like a very caring person.”

“She should mind her business.”

‘You are her business, you should go home and let her do exactly that,’ was clawing its way out of Azuma’s throat. He swallowed and washed the bitter words down with the last of his tea.

Sakyo took his cup and washed it, then he picked up a small black and mustard coloured pile left at the bathroom door. “I’ll go change into my own stuff”.

“You could stay”, Azuma still sat at the now empty table. “You could stay here for a couple of days”, he said again.

“You must be kidding me,” huffed Sakyo, “you pick a yankee off a street, give him the full access to your home and compromise your own safety. Who does that?”

“You have already been here alone for many hours,” shrugged Azuma, “if you wanted to steal my, I don’t know, tv, spare shoes, and a stock of collagen supplements, you would have by now. You stocked my fridge instead.”

“Because it was the saddest fridge I’ve ever seen.”

“Stay?” Azuma had a funny thought; he snickered, “Fufu, you could make sure I have something more substantial than collagen and shochu for dinner tonight.”

Maybe Sakyo had tried collagen supplements before, maybe he hadn’t but could still imagine the taste of the shochu-and-collagen cocktail well enough to get a bit green in the face.

“I could use your foolish kindness and the borrowed clothes to get these,” he weighed the pile of fabric in his hands, “washed. Where do you do laundry?”

“Arou…”, Azuma yawned into the back of his hand, “Sorry, around the corner and two blocks down there is a coin laundry.” He got up and started moving the table back to the wall to make space for his futon. “I’ll take you there. Do you mind if we go a bit later though?”

“You will sleep, I can make two blocks there and back myself.” Sakyo put his clothes down, rinsed his hands in the kitchenette sink and went to retrieve Azuma’s bed set from its cupboard. “I’m sorry I’ve kept you up after a night shift. That was very inconsiderate of me.”

Azuma didn’t try to stop him, there wasn’t any energy left for polite arguments. Halfway under the comforter already, he sighed out:

“The coin laundry might be still closed right now anyway, I’m not really sure what time does it open.”

“I’ll go a bit later then.” Some rustle made it through the sleepy fog. Azuma guessed, Sakyo sat down on the other end of the room and picked up a book. “Do you have anything I could wash together with my stuff?”

“There’s a basket in the ba-ahhh… Bathroom. Take my key.”

“Enough. Sleep well.”

“Goodnight,” mumbled Azuma in reply and finally let himself fall asleep to the whispers of straw and paper.


	2. Chapter 2

When he woke up, the first thing he saw were uneven lines of scrapes on puffy skin and frizzy hair tips. Sakyo was sleeping next to him, covered by the edge of Azuma’s comforter. Two books were piled under his head as a makeshift a pillow.

“Hey,” whispered Azuma. The way Sakyo slept, all serene and motionless when he’d spent his every waking moment frowning, was unnerving. “Hey.”

His voice was barely louder than the sounds of tires and people on their daily routine and branches scraping on concrete, all coming from the outside, thoroughly muted by the closed windows. It blended right in and faded out together with the sound of some stranger's footsteps. 

Azuma scrambled up and sat on his knees still engulfed in a comforter, which felt heavy on his shoulders now. He felt reluctant to move or make a sound, as it could have proved that even if he did, all his efforts would just sink in the stillness of the room without making a ripple. And so Azuma sat there and breathed, watching the bleached-grey sky framed by his window.

A couple of centuries passed by, or maybe ten minutes or so if Azuma stopped being dramatic, and Sakyo stirred. He shivered, the whole comforter was now pooled around Azuma, who tried to feel guilty about it, but really couldn’t.

“Ah, sorry, I snoozed out,” raspiness in Sakyo’s voice made Azuma shiver too. “And borrowed a corner of your comforter.”

“It’s okay,” watching Sakyo rubbing his face and cautiously stretching, Azuma couldn’t remember what his despondesce was about.

“And I didn’t go to that coin laundry. Just read for about twenty and then I got dizzy and drowsy all of a sudden, uhh.”

It must have been some residue of his head trauma; Azuma opted not to comment on it however, judging by Sakyo’s listless curses under his breath, he knew it just as well.

“I’ll take you there then and keep you company,” smiled Azuma. “Give me twenty minutes and we can get going.”

Azuma put his futon away, and Sakyo busied himself with something in the bathroom. Cleaning, by the sound of it. He emerged when Azuma was halfway done with his nail care and provided the rhythm to Azuma’s routine with heavy banging of cupboard doors and glass treble from the fridge. 

Azuma was doing his hair when background image in his mirror changed and Sakyo grunted right over his shoulder, “Are you done yet?”

“Nearly, fufu. Just a moment.”

“It’s been half an hour. How much time does a guy need to get ready to go to a coin laundry around the corner?”

“You said it yourself, didn’t you? Half an hour.”

“Shouldn’t it be one sixth of that?”

“It depends. Is the house on fire?”

The huffing over his shoulder messed his newly set bangs a bit, Azuma decided he liked it better that way.

“And I’m done,” Azuma smiled into the mirror, but did not get up. He pulled a small blackwood drawer closer, “By the way, can you sit down next to me, please?”

“What for?”

“Just sit,” Azuma smiled up at him, and Sakyo lowered himself on tatami next to him. “Let’s not scare my neighbors, at least from afar.”

Out of a drawer Azuma pulled several tubes, a round box and a pencil case, the latter turned out to store some brushes.

“You must be kidding me,” Azuma expected more fight, but the incredulity on Sakyo’s face gave way to resignation surprisingly quickly. He muttered under his breath, something akin to ‘let’s see if it gets any better with age’, but Azuma wasn’t sure and decided not to ask. Sakyo had already closed his eyes and relaxed his face with practiced ease. Azuma picked up a tube of primer and set to work.

“Sorry if my touch hurts. I’ll try to be gentle, but the bruising is quite bad, it must still hurt.”

“It’s okay,” Sakyo barely moved his lips.

“We are lucky you are quite fair yourself,” Azuma murmured back. “My cosmetics might not suit your skin tone perfectly, but they’ll do.”

“It’s fine,” repeated Sakyo reassuringly, “how do you know how to do that anyway?”

“I’ve picked a lot of skills here and there,” the nonchalance in Azuma’s voice wouldn’t fool anyone, he could only hope for Sakyo to pick up on how he didn’t want to talk about it. “And done. You can take a look.”

He’d said it a second too early, powder brush still tickling Sakyo’s jaw, Azuma himself still bent over, his own face mere centimeters away from Sakyo’s.

“Oh,” Azuma thought. “Oh.” It felt a bit like he’d seen the first colorful thing for the whole day, for this whole week maybe. In the bleak light of a rainy winter day Sakyo’s eyes were shockingly bright, streaks of violet coloring up the average Japanese dark of his irises. Azuma blindly scrambled for a hand mirror he’d left on the table. Only when Sakyo broke their eye contact to look into it, he managed to take his next breath.

“You have some serious skill, Yukishiro!” Sakyo poked his own face, right below the bottom beauty mark, and swore from the sting under the perfectly unblemished skin. “Do you take apprentices?”

“Fufufu, thank you,” the clang of brush handles and plastic tubes helped Azuma to ground himself. “It won’t stand against a close inspection, but I don’t think anyone’s going to scrutinize your face up close while we are on our Great Laundry Run.”

“Laundry And Grocery” Sakyo pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, waved it in the air like one would manipulate a rhythmic gymnastics ribbon, and tucked it away. “We need stuff for dinner.”

“And groceries,” agreed Azuma.

Sakyo stood up, and immediately got his face half curtained by unruly bangs.

“Tch, Yukishiro, do you have some grease or gel? This drives me nuts.” Azuma, in fact, did have a travel-sized jar of hair gel which had been a part of some kit. And so their great adventure got delayed for another five minutes, during which Azuma enjoyed his first row seat to a nerdy boy turning into a camp yakuza.

And then they stepped around each other tugging on their shoes on the one square meter of the entryway tiles. Hands that stretched to sneak into jacket sleeves and elbows jutting out while adjusting a muffler kept colliding, then retracting to change their course only to touch again. 

Finally Sakyo and Azuma left the two-story four-apartment building behind. The neighborhood was much nicer than Azuma’s run down building would let one think, and the coin laundry chain store in the middle of it had never really seen many customers, at least on Azuma’s memory. It was just the two of them this time around as well, back to back on a narrow bench running in front of the row of washing machines, using each other’s weight for support. 

They’d both brought books to while away the time. Azuma hadn’t even noticed he got one until the machine started and he sat down and shoved his hand into his satchel, itching to feel the velvety paper of a dust jacket in his fingers. The force of a habit well learned over hours and hours spent watching jerky rotations. There was a whirr of paperback pages behind him too. It made Azuma warm, to think what a picture they’d make, their poses and bent heads mirroring each other.

“What are you reading?” Azuma needed more details to complete his picture.

Sakyo huffed, “Night Train to Whatever. I just took a book that didn’t have a bookmark in it, wouldn’t want to disrupt your reading.”

“Fufu, thank you,” the laughs came out in puffs of air, warming up his throat and cheeks. “And it’s to Lisbon. The main character travels to Portugal.”

“Hush,” the grouch from behind his back sounded suitably annoyed. As in, it suited the furrowed brows Azuma had imagined. “No spoilers.”

As numbers on the electronic display blinked away, no other patrons came in, and the afternoon had passed to thwacks and splashes and paper rustle. Eventually Sakyo bumped his elbow into Azuma’s side to let him know he was getting up to load their laundry into the dryer. Azuma shifted his weight to lean forward to rest his head on his bent knees and watched Sakyo dance along a three-step distance, swaying from one machine to another. And then Sakyo turned his head slightly, fumbling with the borrowed coat for its pocket. There was a black line cutting across the side of his face.

“Are those…” At the sound of Azuma’s voice Sakyo dropped two coins he’d fished out. They hit the tiled floor with an airy peal.

“Sorry, my fault,” Azuma didn’t move from the bench. “Are you wearing glasses?”

There was a tired sigh and some grunts, as Sakyo tried to claw a coin from under the bench. “What else does it look like?”

With another huff – rather pained one – Sakyo straightened up and sat on his hunches, the coin tucked between his fingertips. With his slicked back bleached hair and a fierce scowl he looked every bit a good-for-nothing yankee, but for the black framed glasses sitting on his nose and some foundation getting flaky under the corners of his mouth. They clashed so horribly, spoiling all his efforts to look menacing, that Azuma couldn’t help but laugh. He laughed and laughed, hiding his face in his knees. He tried to say ‘sorry, it was just so unexpected!’ but happy little hiccups would cut into the flow of his words, making him giggle again.

Sakyo stared at him some and then returned to the dryer to start the cycle, exasperated. Eventually the sparkle of laughter in Azuma’s mouth died out with an afterglow that colored the gray afternoon some warm orangish color, akin to what an artist might use to highlight the walls of a room to portray the warmth of a fireplace. And then it turned to bitter ashes.

“I’m so sorry. That was very inappropriate of me,” Azuma sat up straight and put his hands on his thighs, lowering his torso in a bow. “Please know that I didn’t mean to make fun of you. The glasses suit you very well.”

The toes of his boots and a patch of concrete made for a very sorry view. 

“Whatever. The glasses are not supposed to make me the next Takakura Ken, they are here to help me see.”

Azuma was rather certain no glasses in the world could turn that babyface into a Takakura Ken lookalike. However, he got so lost in his imagination, pasting Sakyo’s face onto decades old gangster movie characters, that the ding of the dryer made him jump. The rattle of the bench echoed through the shop, every repetition pumping more blood into his cheeks.

Sakyo was standing there, hand on the lock, looking at him. As if he forgot something.

At least he didn’t forget the grocery list allright. What had followed was the most organized shopping experience in Azuma’s life. And that’s including those times when he had only had the exact amount of money in his pocket, counted out yen for yen for whatever necessity he’d required. This time, no sales brochure had been overlooked, no extraneous isles had been visited and no unsolicited sweets had graced Azuma’s shopping basket. There had only been some vegetables, mushrooms, condiments and whatever else was then sweating in a pot under Sakyo’s watchful eye.

The lunch turned out lovely, seasoned to perfection with a conversation over nothing. Azuma left for work with his body warmed up by hearty food, his heart tingling with laughter, and a promise taken from Sakyo, that he wouldn’t try to do a half a year’s worth of housework out of gratitude, and try to rest. Azuma had his doubts concerning the last part, but oh well. If someone else cleans his bathroom, that means he doesn’t have to.

That warmth carried him through the night, giving him buoyancy to stay afloat in Shinjuku.

The morning of his day-off greeted him with incandescent sunlight, so unseasonable it made frowsy hostesses flocking down towards metro station crawl in on themselves in confusion and made Azuma wish for some high-spf face powder. A matter of habit more than anything this deep in winter and early in the morning. He’d better put on some proper sunscreen during day though. Maybe they could go for a walk and a drink with Sakyo, if the weather continued like that.

It didn’t. When he woke up closer to noon, it was raining. Every hair-wide fracture in the walls of his apartment could have been felt, leaking drafts of scathingly cold air. Fortified with both their comforters, Azuma’s coat and a thermos of hot calpis shochu they nestled for the day.

Daytime tv proved to be indigestible even for Sakyo, who claimed to be appreciative of cinematography at large. There was an episode of some Japanese series, they gave it a try first, but even a copious amount of alcohol wouldn’t help to wash down the atrocious acting. Tv switched to variety show and safely muted, they progressed to a conversation over nothing: the weather, the latest movies, some places to go to. Sakyo proved to be quite surly towards the first, passionate on the second, and uncommonly knowledgeable on the obscure matter of child-friendly places in Shinjuku.

He knew the bar Azuma worked at too. 

“It’s nothing, everyone does,” Sakyo gave a small reply in between taking sips. The amount of patrons and, more importantly, Azuma’s wage didn’t really suggest that, so Azuma had to pry. In return he got some lore, it went like this. Once upon a time in the late eighties his Mama-san had made friends with a guy who went and shot up through the rank. Or maybe he didn’t. Anyway the humble place had been added to an unwritten list. Azuma was busy trying to decide whether he was glad the bar he worked at was sacrosanct to yakuza, or not all, when Sakyo asked,

“But wasn’t it, uh, an okama bar? Do you have to do all that,” Sakyo made vague billowy gestures around his torso and hips, as good as he could with a comforter around him, “you know. Do you do that too?”

Azuma should have really had known better than expect emotional intelligence from a gang delinquent. On an inhale he braced himself, and on an exhale straightened up his posture.

“It is true that the bar is owned by a transgender person, and most of our staff wear drag. However, I do not, as I have never been requested to do that”. Prim and proper in his rigid traditional sitting pose Azuma started feeling a bit ridiculous, as next to him Sakyo stuck his nose into his cup. If anything, his cat-like back had slouched even further into more comfortable pose.

“How come?” The inquiry was tinted with a tone of fleeting interest, akin to how a passerby makes a fraction of an effort to see whatever a gathering had flocked around.

There was no malice in his voice, no challenge. However, Azuma’s fight or flight response still hadn’t left him, his chest felt like it was carving in under the suction pressure from within and his calves were ready to spring his body out of his seat.

“Just like that”, he answered nonetheless. “When I’d just started, Maman asked me if I wanted to crossdress, I said no and that was it”.

Sakyo fiddled with the thermos and poured them both another drink. Azuma watched murky droplets of their drink free-fall off the stainless steel rim, and when the last of them finally amassed enough to detach and fall, he supplied for posterity, “Sometimes I do apply a bit of makeup though, like some lip gloss or eyeliner maybe”.

“Seems fair, you are pretty as you are”, came the response.

“Thank you”, Azuma smiled, what else was there, “you are cute too”.

“Stop it,” grumbled Sakyo. Surprisingly, he wasn’t flustered enough to drop the topic, “There’s nothing to it, you are just pretty like a model”.

If a couple of drinks make Sakyo sweet-talk like that, Azuma should definitely keep them coming. He unfolded himself and walked up to the fridge. After breakfast they’d made enough homemade Calpis to last a nuclear winter in their little blanket fort. The thought made Azuma all bubbly on the inside, and when he opened his mouth one of those happy bubbles carried out words, “I do some modelling jobs though”.

“Woah”, Sakyo took off his glasses again. Without them his slightly unfocused eyes looked huge and filled with wonder, which gave that extra layer to his next statement, “I never thought I’d meet a real model-san”.

“Sorry to disappoint you, not a real model. Parts model”.

“Still counts”, Sakyo shrugged and bottomed up his drink. The new batch of hot cocktail was ready.

Eventually the day grew darker and heavier with rain, and the list of conversation starters appropriate for a near stranger got exhausted, so they submerged themselves in books.

Sakyo was mapping something out on the floor with his fingertips, and Azuma wondered, what was he seeing in the book. Without doubt, something decidedly different to himself, for The Twelve Letter Conversation With God certainly wasn’t that long. Azuma had worked through a unit in his French textbook, did some grammar exercises, took a break and stared at the window, pencilled down a vocabulary list for the next graded reading, and Sakyo was still humming to himself over the short story. His head down, fingers sliding and pointing across a small area, coming to rest on his mug from time to time, and picking up again.

“What are you doing?” Azuma actually had to repeat his question.

“Hm? Reading”.

“Fufu, the first time I see someone reading with their hands”, and then Azuma hurried to correct himself, “with no Braille involved”.

“Well, you’ve said the guy mostly writes plays”.

“That’s right, however I don’t have any on hand”, Azuma took a sip of his steaming drink. “Frankly speaking, I don’t think any of them have been published in Japan at all”.

Sakyo hummed distractedly. “This one could as well be a play. Even I can see how easy it’d be to adapt it for the stage”.

“Do you write scripts on the side of being a babysitter?”

“Don’t be ridiculous”, Sakyo bristled and closed the book. Something in his face made Azuma feel guilty that he’d brought up the topic at all.

“Hey”, he poured another cup of hot shochu and fit it into Sakyo’s palm, covering his hands with his own. “And here I was hoping you could tell me more about scriptwriting. I’ve never met anyone who knows much about theater”.

Sakyo tried to down his drink in one go and burned his tongue. “I don’t know shit”. He got up, made his way to the window and crouched next to the book piles there. “Don’t you have anything that doesn’t have katakana on the spine?”

Some hair on the sides of his head were sticking out, ruffled by the glasses handles. The top of his bleached head looked black on the backdrop of the window. It was swaying a bit.

“Fufu, why, I do”, Azuma giggled, “take a look on the left”.

“Thc”. He laughed out loud at the face Sakyo made. For some reason - most likely out of that instinct that makes people poke unknown substances and press red buttons, Sakyo picked up one of the books and squinted at a random page. “You can actually read that, huh? Is this in English?”

“Italian”.

“And what does it say?”

“Il Giorno Prima della Felicita”.

Sakyo just huffed to that again, “As if that’s telling me something”.

“The novel’s name is ‘The Day Before Happiness’. I’ve really liked that image”. Azuma was expecting the next question to be the standard ‘what’s it about?’, but Sakyo charged in a different direction. He hummed, tracing the uneven line of diacritical marks and stated rather than asked, “You know many languages”.

“Fufu, thank you, but not really. Though I try to learn”.

“For work?”

“I’d love to travel. I don’t have means to go abroad for now, and learning different languages kind of scratches the itch a bit”.

“That’s cool”, Sakyo put the book away. The lack of interest in his voice rubbed Azuma the wrong way. “Did you have a chance to travel?”

“You’re joking, huh? Nah, haven’t been anywhere”.

“And inside the country?”

“When I say ‘at all’ it means at all”, Sakyo shrugged, “didn’t set a foot outside Tokyo. Have you been to, I don’t know, Okinawa”.

Azuma petted the glossy cover of his textbook. “I have”.

“Huh?” finally the monotonous drown was broken by an actual intonation showing interest. “What were you doing there?”

“What do you think a pretty boy like me can do there?”

Azuma hadn’t even noticed how heated their conversation got before. Absence of sound was deafening. His angry words splattered over the walls and were reeking an awkward echo into the room, again and again. 

It really didn’t matter what Sakyo thought of him. It shouldn’t had mattered, what’s some yankee’s opinion on Azuma’s life choices. But just minutes ago Azuma all but preened under his praise, and some part of him - some part that burrowed inside him like a small animal - desperately wanted to be good for this guy. It got angry at the exposure and was now clawing Azuma’s insides, wounds leaking self-deprecation into his bloodstream.

He shifted his cup on the floor, purposefully making a sound to break the spell. Sakyo put the book away into the pile and patted his now empty hands of his thighs.

“I should start on dinner”.

“I’ll help”, Azuma stood up and put the comforter away.

As it turned out his help was quite required, if underappreciated. As in, he wasn’t really keen on figuring out how good Sakyo was with a knife when slightly tipsy. Sakyo grumbled but conceded. The noodles they made didn’t require much cutting anyway. Azuma had never bothered to check the extraction fan, and of course it proved to be out of service. In the matter of minutes apartment was saturated with sticky fragrant steam. It made the window foggy, blurring out the gray outside into some soft velvety twilight.

“Thanks for the food”. Sakyo’s glasses got white with fog too.

“By the way, if you crave something inherently Japanese”, having ramen like that, bent over a low table, reminded Azuma of something, “I have a hanafuda deck”.

“How did we get there?”

“Well, usually at this point I do chores, but you’ve already done the cleaning. And we did laundry yesterday.” He got up and made his way to the drawer, that hosted the array of skin care products. “So, I thought we could play something, since there’s no work to do. And you said you were tired of foreign books. We could play poker if you’d rather”, he got two decks out and weighed them in his hands.

“Hanafuda is fine. You play koi-koi?”

Azuma dealt eight cards each with a quiet laugh. “Let’s do six rounds per game. Any special rules you’re used to?”

“Six points to oya if both fail to call. Reshuffle Four-in-Hand. And the Rain Man spoils the Viewing Party, I guess. Is that okay with you?”

Azuma hummed, straightening the field. “I’d propose to disregard both Viewing yaku”.

“Sure. Why though?”

“It’s for your own good”, Azuma knew his smile was serene, but judging by the visible gulp Sakyo made, his eyes had already acquired that gambling fire. “Sake card always finds its way into my hand. Always.”

And so they started. The dishwashing duty was at stake, and thus Sakyo accepted his defeat with grace. He lost the second game as well, which meant a good tatami dusting was waiting for him the next day. And then there was window cleaning, library run, ironing and grocery shopping. Though, Azuma suspected Sakyo blew the game for that latter intentionally. Azuma himself was left with dusting, he decided it was the lesser evil. 

“Let’s do one more?” Sakyo sloshed leftovers of his drink around in a cup. “And then maybe try our luck again with tv?”

Ah, what a spirit. The guy was far from the most challenging opponent Azuma had ever had, however he was easily amongst the top most entertaining ones. His scrupulous point count and hotheaded gambles, his little mannerisms: the ‘tsk’ing, and squinting, and that half-akimbo sitting pose. The way his bony shoulders tilted. The way his fingers pinched cards. The way his babyface was getting progressively softer after every cup. Azuma was getting drunk on those much more effective, than on shochu. However, “Are you sure, your schedule for tomorrow can afford that?”

As expected, his snickering was met with stubborn bravado. “I’ll just have to fill yours up so you don’t get bored”.

“Fufu, but you know what”, the mischief that made Azuma tap his finger over the corner of his mouth was still aimless. It was taking vague shape and direction under Sakyo’s slightly unfocused stare. “We could bet a wish”.

“A wish then”, the responding smile was all teeth and a bit of drunk bravado. “Come on then. Come!” 

Azuma shivered. It must have been excitement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The actual English title of the book Sakyo’s reading is Oscar and the Lady in Pink by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt. However the Japanese translation is titled 神さまとお話しした12通の手紙, so I ran with it. Those who recognized it somehow get an imaginary brownie.
> 
> The concoction they are drinking consists of hot water, Calpis (kinda sweetened greek yoghurt) and shochu (cheap clear booze). It’s a thing. I’m not joking.
> 
> As can be seen from Mahjong Society Link Skill, ten years into the future Sakyo’s never learnt his lesson. Which is, do not gamble against Yukishiro Azuma.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to me.
> 
> Also, the chapter is one third of a size of the previous two. Oh, well, I hope that means there's only a third of my usual grammar mess then.

Repetitive motion was soothing. Up and down, up and down his legs. Curling up and down along his thighs, circling gently over his lower back and buttocks. Over, and over, and over. When he was done, Azuma pulled his nightclothes over slightly damp skin, gathered his moisturizers and slid out of the bathroom. Having someone over had its cons – like applying body lotions in the cramped bathroom instead of the comfortable space of the living room, – however there were much more positive points to it.

Azuma had never really thought about having a roommate. When he graduated and moved to Tokyo, an option of having his own space was a novelty, and the value of privacy had never depreciated in his eyes ever since. So, no, he hadn’t thought about a roommate. And his love life was always a story told on the backdrop of hotel rooms and drawn curtains, he’d never brought anyone home. Never been to someone’s either. And didn’t think much about it.

But now, watching the white shadow of Sakyo’s sleeping face in his mirror, Azuma felt quite content. Happy maybe. Azuma applied a face mask, massaging it into his skin with miniscule movements. He could do his nail care in ten minutes while it absorbs.

The time splashed by, minute by minute passing in tides, each cresting with a change of the last number on the clock. Azuma wouldn’t have noticed it otherwise at all. A reading light covered with a cotton hand towel cast strange shadows around the room. Distorted Sakyo’s features turning him into a stranger again. Azuma watched him sleep, looking up from his nails every now and then.

Sakyo proved to be an early bird, which meant he was used to going to bed equally early. By the end of the movie, which they settled to watch after the hanafuda match, he was snoozing into Azuma’s shoulder, hiding his eyes from the light explosions. “Sakyo-kun”, called Azuma then, “Sakyo-kun. Let’s make you comfortable”. Sakyo hid further into the crook of his neck with a groan, his dry hair tips itched on Azuma’s neck.

“Fufu, Sakyo-kun, it tickles, come on”. He gave a light shove and Sakyo sat up, swaying slightly. He rubbed his eyes with a near-miss on the first try. He harrumphed and promised in futile, “Imma not sleeping. It’s okay. And don’t call me that”.

“You are”, snickered Azuma, “And I won my right to call you that fair and square, and so I will”.

“What kind of a wish was that? Choose something decent”. The low growl in Sakyo’s voice would have been much more intimidating if he hadn’t yawned then. Disinclined to argue, Azuma pulled a futon out and excused himself into the bathroom. He made sure to cite all the treatments he was going to apply. It quite could have been, that Sakyo fell asleep before the list was over.

“Sakyo-kun”, mouthed Azuma aimlessly, the new form of address still novel. “Sakyo-kun”.

Here they were. Sakyo sleeping soundly. Azuma going through his routine. Navy blue camellia patterned hand towel draped over the single source of light. Rain patter on the window panes. The night was passing by in soothing non-silence. Picking up a book Azuma thought, he could maybe go to sleep a bit earlier than usual. And maybe the next morning would greet him with some sunlight.

This time it actually did. Azuma woke up to the smell of straw warmed up in sunny patches, and a sad little breakfast. A mere bowl of plain rice and some frugal soup. It seemed like another grocery run was in order. Azuma squinted at Sakyo’s face and pulled out a tube of sunscreen. The tiny amount of tint in it should be quite enough to cover the yellowed residue from the bruises and smooth out the scabbed scratches. The guy claimed he could apply it on his own, but Azuma had already had a beauty blender in his hand.

For some reason, he was appreciating it. Could feel the hum of excitement in his wrists and in his fingers, in his sides and his calves, as blood pumped it through his system. Unbidden, he imagined them right there and then, seated on a sun-warmed tatami, face to face, knees touching as Azuma leans in. They looked good next to each other. “Keep still, Sakyo-kun”, his admonishment wasn’t effective at all, all smiles, “no fidgeting”.

In contrast with his sunny disposition and the clear late morning, Sakyo was gloomy. His mood kept bouncing up and down, plummeting further each time, all through their stroll along the river on a roundabout way to the local library. The mystery resolved itself in line for the cash register. 

Knuckles white on a grocery basket handle, Sakyo admitted, he couldn’t cover his half of the bill. Azuma knew what exactly was in the pockets of that soaked-through yellow sukajan he’d found him in. And what wasn’t there. He really didn’t expect him to. 

He waved it off, murmuring how Sakyo-kun contributed by not letting him buy extra sweets and that snack that wasn’t on discount. The guy seemed to be placated enough to actually enjoy their walk back. Not having to carry his own groceries was nice, even though, to be fair, on his own Azuma wouldn’t have had any at all.

He wondered if Sakyo had a bank card. Considering his au pair work arrangement, and that, as far as Azuma knew, “younger brothers” like him didn’t really get a salary, more like some pocket money whenever it stroke their supervisor’s fancy, it quite could be that he didn’t.

Before leaving for work Azuma left several notes under on a kitchenette counter, calling out that those were for any more groceries they might require or whatever else in case Sakyo needs anything; and fled. He was cutting it close to running late. And normally Azuma would avoid having to actually run across Shinjuku, but they had been watching some series Sakyo was familiar with, and his commentary made the show so much fun.

Azuma clocked his card in right on time, even if at the moment his jacket was still buttoned up. He greeted Mama-san, the proprietor waved back and then did a double take on him. Blowing cigarette smoke out, she noticed, “Azuma, dear, aren’t you flustered?” And then tutted, when he claimed rushing through the crowds. “You know I didn’t mean that. Just be careful, dear”.

He definitely wasn’t careful when he’d picked a passed out yankee off a sidewalk. And still, he knew she didn’t mean that either.

The night passed by, measured in closed tabs and victory fanfares from karaoke machine. By the end of it the venue was blurred with cigarette smoke, not a single object had a clear outline; just like Azuma’s thoughts.

The morning was damp and bleak. Azuma couldn’t help but compare it to that other one. This time around he wasn’t warmed up by physical exertion of dragging another person around, and by the time he got to the train station he was a cocoon of coat lapels and trembling hands. It was no warmer inside the suburb train, and when Azuma reached his apartment it took him a couple of tries to unlock the door.

The apartment was warm and fragrant with rice steam. And it was empty.

It felt empty; Azuma didn’t need to check the bathroom, or turn around to look for the beat up sneakers in the corner of the entryway.

He took off his coat, washed his hands. Empty laundry basket gaped at him from under the sink. He helped himself to breakfast, enjoyed the puff of steam on his face when he opened the rice cooker. He brought the tray with his bowls to the table. There was a note laid out right next to the money he’d left. Apologies, words of gratitude, more apologies, a name. No contact information.

It was just as well, he told himself. It was all for the best. He’d do much better without a delinquent in his life weighing him down. He was going to do his skin care routine. And then he was going to sleep. And then he would study French. And on his next day off, after the scheduled photoshoot, he’d stop by that traditional arts space owned by one of his old acquaintances; he could pick up traditional dancing again. 

He would apply for a job somewhere in a high-rise, meet someone good for him, and make a better life for himself.

After doing the dishes, Azuma stacked them away into the cupboard. He washed the rice cooker thoroughly and put it away, back into its box. The kitchenette wasn’t going to see much use, as usual. Then he took a shower, did his skin care routine and went to sleep.

Just as he’d promised to himself.

***

Cloth wrapped bottle in hand, Sakyo knocked on the door with the number 206 in it. He’d spent blasted half-an-hour at a liquor store today just to get a single bottle. That was ridiculous, he had long learned to choose his goddamn booze. But this was important.

Important enough to make him wrinkle the patterned cotton in his clenched hand. To make him feel ten years younger, knocking at another door only to find an unfamiliar face and a clutter of cargo boxes behind it.

The door opened, and this time around the face behind it was both familiar and uncannily strange with inconspicuous signs of age.

“Ah, Sakyo-kun. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He cringed momentarily at the address, and then something settled in his guts. Perhaps, it was just as well.


End file.
